


The City of Rivers

by noodlecatposts



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, Crescent City Series - Sarah J. Maas, Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe Period AU, Angst, Character Death, Georgian Period, I will list the characters and ships as they come., Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Pining, SJM Crossover Fic, Throne of Glass x A Court of Thorns and Roses x Crescent City, more to be added - Freeform, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlecatposts/pseuds/noodlecatposts
Summary: As war rages overseas, the City of Rivers remains at peace. Behind the intimidating walls of the city, things are business as usual. The Great Houses of Wendlyn have begun to gather for the Winter, a season of politicking and partying under the watchful eye of Queen Maeve.With so many sheltering in Doranelle, the young ladies and gentlemen of Wendlyn society have begun to prepare for a different kind of war—one fought in silks and satin on the marble battlefield of a ball and not the bloody hills of Terrasen—a war of love and marriage.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Content & Trigger Warnings!!!**  
> The typical angst and pining. Some may get together right away; some may take forever. Some may not get together at all. **A few important trigger warnings include the topics of character death, domestic abuse, sexual assault, and adultery.**  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, at last. I’ve pretty much spent all week daydreaming about this fic instead of working on what I was supposed to. Seeing as how I have no self-control, I’m going ahead and sharing the first chapter. Let me know what you think! I’d love your thoughts!

**Rhysand Veritas, Duke of Velaris**

The City of Rivers wasn’t all that different from his beautiful Velaris, was the thought Rhys had as he stepped out of the tavern. With its jagged mountains and flowing rivers, one could almost confuse the two cities with one another. Almost.

Doranelle was too green for his liking, something his younger cousin, Morrigan, teased him endlessly over. The rivers here raged in a way that contrasted starkly against the peaceful Sidra River back home. The rivers of Doranelle held in them a viciousness only matched by the queen that ruled over them. May the gods keep someone from ever overhearing Rhys say such a thing aloud.

“You are thinking far too hard for so early in the day!” Cassian slaps a hand roughly between Rhys’s shoulder blades, knocking both the air from his lungs and the melancholy from his head. It was probably for the better; Rhys only just arrived in Doranelle. It was a little early to be getting homesick. He had months ahead of him still.

Rhys coughs, trying to catch his breath as Cassian slings an arm improperly around his shoulders. Cassian was a wild thing, impossible to be broken by the rules of the stringent society which Rhys had dragged him into. At least, he always made things interesting.

“It’s nearly two in the afternoon,” Rhys says around another cough.

Cassian shrugs. “Perhaps, but I only just woke up.”

Rhys eyes Cassian’s wolfish grin with worry. “What have you done now?”

“Nothing!” Cassian’s eyes are wide with faux-innocence; the Duke does not find it consoling at all. He’s definitely gotten into something while Rhys wasn’t looking. “ _Brother_!” A hand to his broad chest in dismay. “How could you have such little faith in me?”

“Because I know you, _brother_.” Rhys places a special emphasis on the word. “Now, tell me. What have you done?”

Cassian’s smile becomes something soft and silly and utterly alarming for Rhys. He says, “I’ve fallen in _love_.”

“Ah.” That makes plenty of sense to Rhys. Cassian is always in love.

“She’s the most beautiful woman in the world,” Cassian eulogizes. “No other woman compares. You must meet her immediately. She is _perfection_.”

Rhys can’t help the scoff that escapes him as he leads his friend down the cobblestones. Cassian hardly notices where the two men are headed—back to the Vertias family townhome. He’s too busy daydreaming about this perfect woman that he has discovered.

“I’ve never seen—”

“Yes,” Rhys interjects when he can’t wait any longer, “and just how much of this woman have you _seen_ , my brother?”

Cassian gasps at the offense. “ _Rhysand Veritas_ , Duke of Prythian—”

“Now, now,” Rhys interjects, “there’s no need for _that_.

Cassian ignores him. “I would never—”

The men are rounding a corner when a flash of white skirts cuts them off, darting in front of the two gentlemen without care. Rhys manages to halt Cassian with an arm; they just narrowly avoid collision with the hurrying woman.

Cassian barks a laugh, as good-natured as ever, but Rhys frowns at her. “Be careful!”

The woman—young, barely older than his cousin, Rhys quickly notices—skids to a stop and turns around. Her muddied hems twirl after her. It makes Rhys wonder what this young lady has been up to, where she’s been that she managed to find so much mud.

“Sorry, lords,” she says quickly, stringing the words together. The lady manages to curtsey and walk backward at the same time, a real display of talent.

“Are you running from something in particular?” Rhys asks. His voice is more formidable than he intends, and the lady’s skin flushes with the scolding.

Cassian gives him a nudge. It’s not often that Rhys is found corrected by Cassian of all people. He says, “What my brother means to ask is, lady, are you well? You’re not running from danger?”

Rhys rolls his eyes at the dramatics. What kind of danger is there in Doranelle? Between the walls and the Queen’s personal guard, very little trouble ever came to the City of Rivers.

“Oh!” Her stormy gray eyes widen at his meaning. “No, not at all.” 

The lady smiles shyly at them. It softens Rhys’s grumpy attitude, not that he would ever admit to it. The young woman’s expression crumbles into fear as the bell tower marks the time—two o’clock.

“Miss?” Cassian prompts, concerned.

“Rather,” she begins, “I do fear that I’m running into the danger.” Rhys raises a brow at her dramatic proclamation. Her smile trembles. “I’m afraid that I’ve missed the midday meal. _Again_. My aunt is surely going to murder me.”

“The world will be a darker place without you,” Cassian says in a grave voice.

The lady scoffs. It makes Rhys smile to see a lady give Cassian a bit of sass; based on his brother’s expression, Cassian agrees. He might be falling in love again. Best separate them immediately.

“I suppose, my sisters would be happier for it.” The second bell toll fades from the air. “Apologies, my lords. But I must be going.”

Another curtsey, and then she flees, weaving amongst the crowds of people gathered for the afternoon market. Rhys tracks the flurry of white skirts as it disappears from view. The occasional flash of golden hair and that ruined hem is all he’s able to make out before the lady is completely gone from sight.

“What kind of feral creature was that?” he exclaims. Rhys is suddenly sorry to have not asked for the woman’s name.

“Ah!” Cassian laughs, clapping Rhys on the shoulder. “I love this bloody city!”

He slings that arm of his over Rhys’s shoulders again and begins to guide him away. Rhys recognizes their direction as being the one that leads to the nearest pub. He sighs; Rhys isn’t sure that his liver will survive the nine-month season, not with Cassian around.

*

**Nesta Archeron of Walton Place**

“Feyre Archeron!” Elain’s voice carries up the stairs, and Nesta rolls her eyes in annoyance. Mother knows what that little sister of theirs has gotten into now. Feyre missed their lunch for the third time this week; Aunt Ripleigh nearly passed out from anger alone. They only arrived four days ago.

Elain’s tone is shrill with horror. “Where were you?” A high-pitched gasp. “What have you gotten into—is that _mud_?”

Nesta sighs as Elain laments the ruined dress. She doesn’t know why Elain still insists on trying to wrangle that wild spirit of Feyre’s; Nesta gave up on such ideas years ago. It was a pointless endeavor; there were better ways for Nesta to spend her time.

Feyre giggles like the troublemaker she is. “I went down to the river by the market!” Elain’s gasp is nearly a shout. “Elain! There’s a _waterfall_. You should come with me next time. It was so much fun!”

“Next time?” Elain begins to sound suspiciously like their Aunt Ripleigh. “Feyre—”

“For goodness sake!” Nesta’s thoughts appear to have conjured the woman herself; she can only imagine the Great Aunt Ripleigh’s pink cheeks, flushed with rage. Aunt Ripleigh does not enjoy the Archeron sisters’ constant bickering, and she especially hates free spirits.

“Can’t a woman get any peace?” Aunt Ripleigh moans. Nesta rolls her eyes. Dramatics run in the blood, it would seem. “In her own home?”

Elain is always the quickest to come to heel. “Sorry, Aunt Ripleigh.”

“She started it!” Feyre cries.

“You! Feyre Archeron, you missed luncheon. Again!” Nesta peers over the banister just in time to witness Feyre’s indignant scoff and the crooked finger Aunty Ripleigh points in her direction. Their aunt sounds just as horrified as Elain, if not more. “You wild creature!“

Feyre juts out her chin, defiant until her last breath. Nesta’s sister isn’t made for the world they live in—just like her. Their aunt seethes, “I’ll have you broken by the summer yet. A husband, too!”

“Ugh!” Nesta’s wild sister screams. “I hate it here!”

A door slams shut, rattling the very bones of the house itself. Nesta sighs, relenting and snapping her book closed. There will be no more reading today, Nesta guesses. Their aunt will spend the rest of the afternoon ranting and raving about the wild Feyre Archeron.

Then she’ll turn on Nesta, taking the time to point out all of the oldest Archeron sister’s flaws, too. Growing older, still unmarried with yet another sister coming out in society, cold and cruel with gentlemen—the list went on and on. Not that Nesta needed any help remembering them.

Nesta rises from her chair, chancing a glance out the window after her sister. Feyre and her ruined skirts flee down the street, weaving her way through the people loitering in the streets; there’s no telling what kind of trouble Nesta’s youngest sister will find this winter. Perhaps Nesta should follow after her. 

The instinct is a sudden one, unexpected, too. Yet, the thought of remaining inside this stuffy townhome any longer has become unbearable for Nesta. Yes, she’ll go for a walk. Finding Feyre will be the excuse.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Aunt Ripleigh asks as Nesta steps to the landing.

Elain watches her with wide eyes. They haven’t discussed going out, and Nesta and Elain do everything together, tied together at the hip since Elain’s birth nearly a year after hers. But Nesta doesn’t want company right now, and so she ignores her sister’s silent questions with no small amount of guilt. Nesta will make it up to her later.

“Out.” Nesta reaches for her cloak, offering little more than that in explanation.

Feyre is already gone from the square by the time Nesta escapes her aunt’s interrogation. Elain’s big brown eyes offer to walk with her, but Nesta declines the invitation by pretending not to notice. She’ll have to bring Elain something in return, a way of apologizing without having to say the actual words.

Nesta sets off down the street, heading towards the shops. She has no idea where her sister may have gone, wouldn’t know where to even begin looking for her. Feyre has a way of disappearing when it’s the least convenient for the family and reappearing when most suitable for her. Aunt Ripleigh will just have to wait until that time to resume her scolding of the youngest Archeron sister.

A bell chimes over Nesta’s head as she enters the bookstore. This time of day, the shop is empty, something that she quietly rejoices in. The last thing Nesta wants to do is spend a few hours playing coy for a gentleman that fancies himself a reader. It would be a waste of an afternoon.

Happily, Nesta makes herself at home amongst the shelves of books and picking out a few titles. She doesn’t have the money to buy any of them, but it helps Nesta forget about her troubles, for a little while anyway. 

It’s like stepping into another world, quiet with dim lighting and that particular smell of books. She’s always liked this kind of place better than anywhere else she’s found, the library back home in Walton Place being her favorite. The rest of the world is too loud, too busy, and too bright. It expects nothing and everything of her. But amongst books, there’s peace.

“Can I help you find something, lady?”

It takes everything in Nesta not to sigh loudly in disappointment. She wouldn’t love anything more than to tell the man to bugger off, but Nesta remembers all of her training, the etiquette drilled into her by her old governess. 

The Archerons don’t have a governess anymore; there isn’t enough money to pay for it or for Nesta’s books. The result has been Feyre Archeron.

“No, I’m just browsing.” Nesta puts on her best smile and faces the interruption head-on. She isn’t expecting the brilliant smile waiting for her or the sparkling blue eyes that come along with it. The force of it stutters her speech, and Nesta drops into a deep curtsey. “T-thank you, my lord.”

Lord Dorian Havilliard laughs softly. “Then perhaps you can help me.” A sheepish smile. “I need to purchase a gift for a friend, and I’m afraid I don’t know what to pick.”

Nesta knows better than to refuse an opportunity to speak with the Lord of Rifthold. The son of the Duke of Adarlan, Dorian Havilliard, is the heir to one of the greatest fortunes in Wendlyn. A hopeless flirt, the rumor was that the bachelor had yet to find a lady who could catch his eye during the evening and hold it until morning.

“Maybe if you describe them to me, I can be of help.” Nesta smiles politely, and Lord Havilliard flashes her another charming smile. That smile of his must get him into a lot of trouble, Nesta thinks. Likely even more than the gossiping ladies of Doranelle can keep up with.

“What an excellent idea!” He bites his lip and mulls the question over. “Brash, headstrong.” Lord Havilliard tilts his head in thought, and a stray lock of hair falls across his forehead in an unfairly attractive manner. “Horribly vain. A terrible flirt.”

Nesta scoffs before she can stop herself. “They sound like quite the catch.”

“Indeed, they are.” His crystal blue eyes twinkle with delight, waiting. “Well? What are your suggestions, Miss—”

“Archeron,” Nesta replies. 

The Marquess of Rifthold repeats her surname, committing it to his memory, while Nesta skims the shelves. Her gaze catches on the gold embossed spine of one of her most recent reads. A lovely tragedy that gave her the best of cries. Nesta plucks it from the display and turns to the lord, finding him watching her with outright amusement. She refuses to be embarrassed about her eagerness; Lord Havilliard asked for Nesta’s help.

She stands up straight and holds out the book to Lord Havilliard. “This one.”

The lord observes the leather bound cover, reading the title. His eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline as he identifies the story Nesta has given him. The young gentleman looks to her, curiosity in his eyes. “Doesn’t everyone _die_ at the end of this story?”

Nesta tilts her head. “I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.”

He grins. “Isn’t that rather grim?”

“Shall I recommend another?” Nesta reaches for the book, but the gentleman quickly tucks it into his side to keep it out of her reach. The little gesture pleases Nesta more than she would ever admit.

Lord Havilliard smiles. “I think they’ll love it.”

“Then I will consider my task fulfilled,” Nesta says, curtseying deeply. It’s time for her to head home. “Have a good day, Lord Havilliard.”

“Lord Havilliard is my father.” He frowns. “Please, call me Dorian. We’ve picked out books together—I dare say that makes us friends.”

“Dorian.” Nesta tests out the informality and decides she doesn’t like it. It seems dangerous, like testing fate; Aunt Ripleigh would faint. She curtseys once more. “I hope your friend will enjoy their new book.”

“I think they will.” Lord Havilliard—Dorian—bows, smiling shamelessly. “Enjoy your evening, Miss Archeron.”

“Nesta,” she tells him before she can think better of it. His eyes light with interest, and Nesta bends at the knees one last time before turning to leave without further conversation.

She can feel _Dorian’s_ gaze burning the back of her neck as Nesta leaves the bookstore, but she refuses to glance over her shoulder and meet the lord’s eye. Instead, Nesta keeps her head high and lets the door swing closed behind her.

*

**Prince Rowan Whitethorn of Doranelle**

If there was one thing that Rowan hated most about society, it was socializing. 

Rowan could easily name a thousand other tasks that were more important than planning a social gathering, and the prince could definitely list a million more things to do that were more pressing than sitting in polite company and sipping tea with a fake smile.

Wendlyn was at war! Not that anyone could tell by glancing around the room he was currently imprisoned in. Hell, the signs of war were barely visible to the prince while taking a walk through the city—at least, so long as Rowan didn’t count the influx of those select families rich enough to spend their winter in the City of Rivers.

Rowan hated this time of the year. The parties, the social visits, he’d rather be anywhere else than here. But his aunt had requested—no, _demanded_ —his attendance. And so, there he was.

The Great Queen Maeve lived for this time of the year. Rowan knew well how Her Majesty relished the attention that the season brings her. At this time of the year, the upper-class families flocked to Doranelle like birds, ready to mingle and supposedly work. Work! If only that was what these people were actually here for.

“You’re looking rather broody today,” Fenrys observes. Rowan didn’t notice the arrival of his friend, but Fenrys was like that. He liked to make a quiet entrance and a loud, exciting exit.

In response, Rowan grunts into his cup. Lord Moonbeam grins at the grumpy response; he’s never been phased by Rowan’s gloomy moods. If anything, they seem to encourage Fenrys to cause more trouble, all to make Rowan smile.

“Did someone put too much sugar in your tea again?” Fenrys smiles innocently at the mention of his most recent prank. 

Rowan glares at the memory, and Fenrys’s smile only grows. He had arrived last week, tired and ready for some tea. Imagine his disappointment when his aunt requested his company before he was even out of the saddle; he’d spent the afternoon grinning and bearing the queen’s annoying court until the twins had arrived to welcome him home.

And what a welcoming it was. Connall immediately engaged the prince in some political conversation, distracting Rowan as his brother, Fenrys, snuck a few extra spoonfuls into Rowan’s cup. The silver-haired prince should have known better; Connall didn’t give two shits about politics. The twins were nothing more than schoolboys let loose at court.

“You better watch out,” Lord Moonbeam teases, “or you’ll rot your teeth out. Then none of the ladies will want to dance with you anymore.”

“I will kill you,” the prince threatens, “and I’ll enjoy it.”

Heads snap in their direction at Rowan’s threat, eyes wide with fear. The prince’s temperament is well-known to be of the violent sort. At the look on the other noble’s faces, Fenrys bursts into laughter, amused by their fear. He grins at Rowan. “I’ve missed having you at court, Your Highness. It’s been awhile since the court last had a good duel.”

“I didn’t,” Rowan grumbles. “Perhaps, it’s time to—”

“Ah! Lord Moonbeam!” Queen Maeve herself materializes at Fenrys’s side. It’s not a secret how Rowan’s aunt fancies Fenrys; though, they all wish it were. “I thought you weren’t going to make it.”

Fenrys bows deeply, and Rowan stands in the presence of the Queen of Wendlyn. The lord smiles brilliantly, and Rowan struggles not to gag at the sight of his friend flirting with his aunt. Even if Queen Maeve was younger, barely thirty, she still had a ten-year advantage on Lord Moonbeam. It turned Rowan’s stomach to think about it.

“You know I would never dream to disappoint you, Your Majesty!” Fenrys tells Rowan’s aunt with a flourishing bow. He offers the queen his elbow, and Queen Maeve happily accepts. As they walk away, Fenrys shoots Rowan a wink over his shoulder.

It’s a signal. With his aunt distracted, Rowan was free to escape. Perhaps, Fenrys could live to see another day.

*

**Lysandra of the Red Rose**

“I just wish the bastard wouldn’t present himself to her like that,” Prince Rowan complains. He tosses the pebble in his hand down the river and scuffs his boots on the rocky embankment, grumbling under his breath.

Lysandra watches with minimal interest as he searches for another rock. She’s not too concerned with the Prince’s athletic prowess—at least not when it comes to tossing pebbles, anyway. No, Lysandra is more concerned with the gossip Prince Rowan provides as he rants. The coin he brings, too.

“I imagine it’d put the lord in a difficult position to refuse her,” Lysandra muses. Prince Rowan shoots her one of his infamous glares, and she shrugs her shoulders daintily. “She is the Queen, after all, Your Highness. Not many people have the luxury of turning her down.”

“Does anyone?” Rowan grunts in irritation. “And I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“Yes, well,” Lysandra says with a suggestive smile, “you’ve told me a lot of things. Most of which I’m never to repeat. Where’s the fun in that?”

A scoff. “The knowledge that the wisdom you bear will one day send me to the gallows, Miss Ennar.” Prince Rowan tips his hat at her. He does look quite fine today, dressed his best for the abandoned afternoon tea. “That is your fun.”

“And, perhaps, out of it, too.” Lysandra shares his grin. “You’d do well to remember that.”

Prince Rowan sweeps himself into a deep bow, mockery in his smile. Lysandra dips into the ghost of a curtsey in response, but before he rises, something over the prince’s shoulder catches Lysandra’s eye.

“By the gods!” A hand flies to her face. Rowan jerks upright, spinning to identify the cause of Lysandra’s horror. He steps in front of her to block her from the threat, and Lysandra hears the faint, sharp intake of breath the prince takes.

“Child?” Lysandra steps around Rowan, tipping back her parasol to reveal her face. She doesn’t wish to scare the girl away; she looks like she needs help. “Are you alright?”

Prince Rowan and Lysandra watch the girl as she pauses, realizing that she’s been noticed by the pair. She turns to face them, bright blue eyes going wide at the sight of the prince staring at her with concern. Her muddy cheeks flush red, and she falls into a horrible excuse of a curtsey.

“I am quite fine, my lady.” The girl says. “Just muddy.”

“You are covered in filth,” Prince Rowan says tactlessly. “What on earth has happened to you, girl?”

Lysandra smiles as the young thing just her chin out stubbornly. “I went down the river to the waterfall.” 

She wonders if the disheveled girl knew that she was being defiant in the presence of one the Princes of Doranelle. Lysandra liked her either way, her chest warming at the sight of the girl’s stubbornness. Good for her.

“And did you decide to jump in?” The prince sneers.

Lysandra tugs gently on his elbow, prompting him to remember himself. Prince Rowan is notoriously ill-mannered, always snapping at people and offending the delicate sensibilities. His piercing green eyes turn towards her, and Lysandra straightens her shoulders. She’s not afraid of a grumpy prince.

“I was collecting river rocks,” the muddy blonde girl admits. She frowns, twisting her ruined skirts around her fingers. “I slipped.”

Prince Rowan rolls his eyes. Lysandra thinks that at least he isn’t saying cruel things to the poor girl; it’s evident that she’s had quite a hard day.

“Come with me,” Lysandra orders the girl. She releases the prince’s elbow and steps carefully down the river’s bank; Lysandra would be horrified to suffer the same fate at the ragged girl in front of her. The girl steps carefully over the rocks towards her, but she seems wary of closing the distance.

“Come.” Lysandra waves her hands to urge the girl forward. “It’s bloody freezing out here. Let’s go find somewhere warm to hide.”

The girl’s eyes widen at her language. Lysandra smiles; she knows that she can get away with the crass speech in front of Prince Rowan, so long as no one else is nearby to hear her. She doesn’t think this girl with tell on her. “Hurry.”

Like a shy stray, the muddied girl approaches Lysandra. She’s no longer wet from the river, her clothes stiff from the cold evening air. Lysandra drapes her shawl over the girl’s shoulders to shield her from the breeze, and she begins to lead her away from the water’s edge.

“Did you find any good pebbles, dear?” Lysandra asks, urging conversation. Prince Rowan follows at their heels, a grouchy, imperious shadow.

“I dropped all of them when I fell,” she complains.

Lysandra sighs. “What a shame.”

“Yes,” the prince scoffs, “such a waste.”

“Oh!” Lysandra shoots the man a stern look over her shoulder. “Don’t mind His Highness. He’s a grumpy thing, but you get used to it.” She laughs at the girl’s wide blue eyes. So, she didn’t know Rowan was a prince. “What’s your name, dear?”

“F-Feyre,” she stutters as the cold winter wind cuts through the shawl. A storm is brewing; they needed to hurry. “Feyre Archeron.”

“Ah, Miss Archeron.” Lysandra smiles. “I am Lysandra.”

“Miss?” The girl asks, remembering her manners.

Lysandra waves her question off. “Just _Lysandra._ ”

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update, but I have to remind myself sometimes that there’s no word requirement for these things. The chapter has been nearly ready for such a long time just because I wasn’t going to reach the word count I was hoping for. It covers everything I was looking to cover.

##  **The City of Rivers, Chapter Two**

**Cassian from Velaris**

_I think we’ve both had too much gin._ Those were Cassian’s brother’s parting words in life, the great Lord Rhysand Veritas, overseer of Velaris.

Cassian snorts at the ridiculous title. He never has been able to believe in such things. What good was a title? How could a string of words carry such weight in the world? What happiness did it even bring?

None. At least that was what Cassian likes to tell himself. For Cassian bore no title, nor did he have the wealth or land to make up for such a feat of birth. He barely has a last name, and he only has that because of his mother’s insistence to keep him.

_Hale_. Cassian Hale. His mother’s surname. It was a brand on Cassian’s forehead everywhere he went. A boy without a father. A baby born out of wedlock. A bastard.

Cassian scoffs, stumbling down the steep tavern steps. Maybe Rhys was right after all. The brothers had indulged in a bit too much gin. But only just a bit. Rhys was such an asshole for abandoning him like this! It would be a miracle if Cassian made it home in one piece.

“Watch your step, sir,” a gentleman unknown to Cassian warns. A pair of striking green eyes look down on him, and suddenly, Cassian has never felt more like a drunken bastard in his life.

The Prince of Doranelle watches Cassian with a sneer as he attempts a respectful bow without falling on his ass. It’s quite the struggle. “Your Highness.”

“If we’re quite finished with the pleasantries,” a familiar, lilting voice interrupts, “I have a frozen girl that I need to take care of.”

Cassian gapes like a fool as Lysandra Ennar appears in his line of vision. She looks him over with a shrewd expression that leaves him shamed, and Cassian has to look away. On her arm is a familiar yet unknown face.

The lady from earlier watches him with wide eyes, recognizing Cassian, too. “My lord.”

“You,” Cassian says lamely, stepping aside to allow Lysandra to guide her into the tavern. It’s not the time or place for a lady to be inside the pub, but that’s never stopped Lysandra Ennar before. The Prince follows after them but not before giving Cassian a stern once over. His highness's disapproval is blatant.

Cassian stumbles after them like the drunken fool he is. He watches after the beautiful Lysandra as she guides the odd young lady through the tavern’s patrons. The girl flushes when she notices the men staring at her disheveled appearance, and Lysandra hugs her close to protect her from their lewd gazes.

“Lys, this way,” the prince calls. He waves to catch the barkeep’s attention, and the mousy man quickly ushers the group into the private rooms in the back of the tavern.

It must be nice to be a Prince of Doranelle, Cassian thinks, and to have access to private rooms throughout the city.

A cup slams onto a table and startles Cassian out of his staring. Blinking, he looks around the room in slow motion. Perhaps Cassian should go home before he can do something foolish. He nods, agreeing with himself, and turns back for the door.

Cassian flounders down the streets of Doranelle on wobbly legs. The cobblestones are never more treacherous than they are after a few too many rounds at The Sea Dragon; it certainly wouldn’t be the first time Cassian fell victim to them on a drunken walk home.

“Bloody hell!” Cassian scrambles out of the way of a passing carriage, tripping over those blasted cobblestones at last. He lands on his rear, watching the stagecoach as it races away, turning a corner towards the wealthier boroughs of Doranelle.

Great, Cassian thinks with a groan. Another wealthy noble has arrived in Doranelle.

*

**Feyre Archeron of Walton Place**

Prince Rowan Whitethorn is a formidable sort of man. Feyre has never seen a prince before, but the broody man sitting before her is the last thing she was expecting. He doesn’t look at all like one of the kind, romantic gentlemen from the fairy stories Nesta likes so much, secretly and with great denial.

As if sensing her thoughts, the prince glances her way and frowns. Yes, Feyre would never expect Prince Rowan to save her from a dragon; in fact, he’d probably instead feed her to it for inconveniencing him with her troubles in the first place. Nesta would be so disappointed.

“Here,” Lady Lysandra says, entering the room and looking for all intents and purposes very much like a fairy princess. Feyre is inexplicably jealous of her despite having never desired the glamour and fanfare of a socialite’s life.

“Drink this, dear.” The kind woman hands her a mug of something warm, oblivious to Feyre’s thoughts.

Feyre eyes the warm drink speculatively, inhaling the rich scent of cinnamon and cloves. The prince smirks at her hesitation, and like the stubborn creature she is, Feyre takes a hearty sip from the drink, eager to prove Prince Rowan’s misgivings about her incorrect. All she does is prove them right.

Lysandra chuckles as Feyre chokes; the bitter sting of rum causes her eyes to water. The prince watches them with open distaste until Lysandra shoots him a look of warning; Prince Rowan sighs loudly and slips outside.

“Yes, Luca is rather heavy-handed with the rum,” Lysandra says with a smile. Her eyes remain on the door that Prince Rowan stepped through, her eyes knowing. She blinks once, and then Lysandra looks back at Feyre, curiosity shining in her brilliant green eyes.

“So, tell me Feyre,” she says. “What were you doing down at the river so late?”

Feyre feels immediately defensive. “I was collecting river rocks.”

“Yes, so you said,” Lysandra says with a tilt of her head, “but why?”

“I don’t like cities,” Feyre admits with a frown. Lysandra’s soft smile persuades her to say more. “It’s so _loud_ here, and there are people everywhere.” She glares when the lady laughs at her. “Why would anyone want to live in such a crowded place? It’s _awful._ ”

The door opens, and a barmaid enters, carrying a bowl and a rag. Lysandra smiles in thanks to the maid, accepting the water basin, and then she turns toward Feyre. The blonde flushes at the memory of her appearance, soaked in the freezing river water and sticky mud. Feyre must make quite the sight.

Cauldron, Feyre couldn’t believe what had happened, that she’d managed to slip and fall into the river. If she’d never learned to swim as a child growing up in the country, Feyre surely would have died. Feyre hadn’t been paying attention to her footing, too lost in her angry thoughts about her Aunt Ripleigh and her plans.

Feyre didn’t think that there was anything wrong with her. No one had ever had any complaints about Feyre and her behavior before moving to Doranelle. Oh, how she wished her father would allow her to come home to Walton Place.

“You’re older than I thought,” the lady remarks, wiping a bit of the mud from her face. “What are you, seventeen?”

“Almost.” Feyre scowls at the thought. “This December, I shall be put to auction.”

Lysandra barks a laugh at her words, but her smile is bitter. “You know nothing of being put up for auction, my girl.” Her words have a bite. “You should consider yourself very fortunate for what you have.”

Feyre flushes with a mix of anger and embarrassment. She’d suspected the nature of Lysandra and the prince’s relationship, and Feyre had heard the rumors while scuttling about the city unattended these last few days. But, in her defense, Feyre never expected to run into either of these people on her own.

“The carriage has arrived,” Prince Rowan announces, storming back into the room like a thunderclap. He turns those cold, emerald eyes on Feyre. “Where do you live, girl?”

“Gods, Rowan.” Lysandra is unabashed about addressing a Prince of Doranelle so informally. She leans back in the chair and scowls at him. “The young lady has a name, you know.” She smiles at Feyre. “Feyre Archeron.”

“Miss... Archeron,” the prince takes Lysandra’s scolding to heart, “where do you live?”

“Greenrich Square,” Feyre tells him with her head held high. The prince has the nerve to look surprised by the answer. She adds, “My Aunt Ripleigh is hosting my sisters and me for the season.”

Prince Rowan looks her over closely; Feyre struggles not to blush under his focus, averting her eyes and praying that the prince looks away from her soon. Feyre doesn’t want to know what the queen’s nephew thinks of her; she fears that his opinion will not be very nice to hear. She knows she doesn’t look like she should live in Greenrich.

Lysandra nods thoughtfully. “That was very kind of her.”

The prince scoffs, ignoring Lysandra’s answering frown. He waves for them to follow after him before storming out of the room. Lady Lysandra spares Feyre an apologetic smile and a shrug before leading her out of the backroom and tavern.

At the carriage, Lysandra takes her leave with a smile and a curtsey aimed at the prince. Feyre’s never seen a man so irritated by being paid the respect due to him, but then again, she hasn’t spent a lot of time in Doranelle. Maybe that’s the norm.

“Your absence in my time of need will be noted,” Prince Rowan says flatly.

Much to Feyre’s confusion, the lady laughs brightly at the prince’s morose words before turning towards Feyre. “Don’t let him be too mean to you, dear. He’s mostly all bark, but he’ll bite if you ask,” she adds with a wink.

“Lysandra,” the Prince growls. The woman laughs again, disappearing down the street in a swirl of skirts. Following the woman’s advice, Feyre makes a note to avoid any and all attempts at propriety with Prince Rowan during the ride to Greenrich.

“You shouldn’t travel alone in the future,” the prince says by way of conversation as the carriage moves along. “The streets of Doranelle are charming enough during the day, but at night, I fear the lesser denizens of the City of Rivers like to come out to play.”

Thunder rumbles around them, and Prince Rowan glares at the dismal sky in silence. When the raindrops begin to fall, Feyre thinks it’s an appropriate ending for such a terrible, misfortune day. The prince sighs impatiently.

“I hate this city,” he says.

Feyre speaks before she can think better of it. “It’s horrible here, isn’t it?”

Her words startle Prince Rowan, and he laughs suddenly, smiling at her forwardness. Feyre can tell that it’s a rare thing to witness, to see this grumbling prince laugh. His grin is wolfish—cunning and sharp and dangerous—as the coach pulls to a stop in front of Aunt Ripleigh’s home. The look is gone as soon as it appears.

“Come, girl,” the prince says, jumping out of the stagecoach with athleticism. His humor vanishes in a flash of lightning. “Let us return you to your gilded cage.”

Feyre feels ridiculous accepting the prince’s hand as she steps down from the stagecoach, but she does as expected anyway. Prince Rowan leads her to the shiny red door of her aunt’s home, rapping twice on the door with the utmost impatience.

What a striking figure he makes on the doorstep of the Archerons, Feyre thinks. She can only imagine what the neighbors will say about this.

The situation only becomes more amusing as Elain answers the door instead of the maid. Her beautiful sister turns ashen at the sight of the dashing, cruel prince and her foolish, muddy sister standing side by side. Feyre has to bite back a laugh at the sight, but Prince Rowan looks inclined to growl in her sister’s face.

“I have returned dear sister,” Feyre says magnanimously, “and with a surprise guest.”

Elain breaks out of her trance and drops into a curtsey. She ignores Feyre’s great wit. “Your Highness! To what do we owe the honor?”

The Prince of Doranelle returns the bow. He smiles at some inside joke. “I found a stray on my evening walk, and I wanted to see that she got home safely.”

“A stray?” Feyre exclaims, much to the horror of her sister.

“ _Feyre_ ,” Elain hisses in a warning.

Rowan ignores the sibling bickering and turns his attention to Feyre. “Miss Archeron, now that I have seen you to safety, I must take my leave.” He smirks at the youngest Archeron, giving her a bow. Feyre thinks it must pain him as he adds, “I look forward to seeing you all at the ball.”

“ _Ball_?” Feyre swears that she doesn’t mean to sneer. “Why would anyone invite _us_ to a ball?”

“Feyre!” Elain’s brown eyes threaten to pop out of her head. She turns toward the prince. “Our apologies, Your Highness. What my sister means to say is that we have only just arrived in Doranelle. There hasn’t been time to receive any invitations.”

Somehow Feyre manages not to roll her eyes at her sister. She glances toward the frowning prince. His Highness seems to contemplate Elain’s words. Though Feyre can tell that Prince Rowan is uncomfortable with any kind of prolonged social conversation, much less one being held on a doorstep in the rain. The prince probably prefers to be out in the country, hunting, and fishing. As far away from society as is possible. Feyre is inclined to agree with him.

However, the prince’s duty must prevail. He lets out a sigh, coming to his decision with what appears to be much regret. Prince Rowan meant what he said to Lady Lysandra then. This was his time of need, navigating conversations with strangers. Feyre imagines he must insult a lot of people without her on his arm.

“Well, consider yourself introduced,” he says at last. His green eyes land on Feyre. “I shall like to see you and your sisters at the ball this Friday.” Prince Rowan bows once more, and Feyre and Elain respond in kind.

“Have a good evening, ladies,” the prince says, leaving before anyone can stop him.

*

**Rhysand Veritas, Duke of Prythian**

The Duke is careful to sober up before trodding back home to Morrigan. The spitfire of a girl would have no problem giving Rhys a piece of her mind if she found him returning home drunk and stupid. Sometimes it was hard for the Duke to discern who was the ward and who was the guardian, despite Mor being five years younger.

Small mercies that when Rhys stumbles home, his cousin is already in bed for the evening.

“Shall I get you some water, Lord?” Nuala asks quietly as she accepts his coat. Her dark eyes are rife with amusement as Rhys trips over the rug.

He scowls at her. “Remind me to never let my brother take me drinking again.”

“Which brother, Lord?” A smile plays at the woman’s lips. Rhys rolls his eyes; he walked right into that one.

“I think we both know which brother he’s referring to,” someone says for him. Rhys turns in surprise, blinking to focus on the owner of the voice. The Duke finds a gentle, closed-lip smile and a mop of dark hair watching him closely. Golden eyes shine with amusement and a little impatience in the dark.

“Azriel!” Rhys cheers. He frowns as the world spins. “What’re you doing here?”

The man in question pushes off the wall and onto his feet. Azriel looks Rhys over with smiling eyes, and he tilts his head to the side as he comes to his conclusion. “I’ve come with news, but it seems I should have waited until the morning.”

“Nonsense!” Rhys steps towards his quiet brother, and Azriel grabs him by the elbow to steady him when he stumbles again. “Cassian is a horrible influence,” the Duke slurs, desperate to explain himself. He pleads, “Azriel, you can’t leave me alone with him anymore.”

“Says the man who ordered me to stay behind in Prythian.” Azriel’s smile is wry. “You left me to do all of the work while you and Cassian drank your way through the City of Rivers. That doesn’t seem very fair.”

Azriel’s words are enough to sober him, and the Duke is suddenly reminded of everything that is at stake, the reasons for leaving Azriel behind while Rhys ushered his ward to safety. While Rhys has been here, complaining about the social system and drinking with Cassian, Azriel’s been searching Wendlyn on his behalf.

“Did you find her?” Rhys asks urgently. “Is she alive?”

A figure moves in the shadows, and Rhys jumps to the defensive. Azriel, on the other hand, is unphased by the cloaked figure's arrival. He shoots Rhys an unimpressed look, and then Azriel invites the figure to join them in the foyer.

“I thought you said he could help,” a voice asks, full of impatience. “What’s this drunken oaf supposed to do?”

“You arrived in the middle of the night.” Azriel sighs. “Everyone in Doranelle is drunk at this hour, but you get used to it.”

An irritated exhale. Rhys listens to the distinct sound of skirts rustling across the hardwood floor. The woman says, “How nice to be so free from worry.”

“You are in the presence of a Duke,” Rhys reminds the woman, his feathers ruffled by her insolence. “You would do well to remember that, lady.”

“It’s always about rank with you people, isn’t it?” An impervious scoff. The lady reaches for her hood, pulling it back to reveal a head of hair as blonde as Morrigan’s. They could be sisters. Twins if it weren’t for the age difference. “I outrank you.”

Rhysand Veritas looks into the sparkling turquoise and gold eyes of an old friend, but they’re on the wrong face. He struggles to look away from them and toward Azriel.

His spymaster shrugs, says, “She appears to have found us.”

The lady juts out her chin in defiance, and Rhys immediately sees the family resemblance. “My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. The Queen of Terrasen.”


End file.
